


Sometimes and Maybe

by BetweenLines55



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Mycroft knows everyone, On Hiatus, brotherly!CanAme, established FrUK
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenLines55/pseuds/BetweenLines55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Arthur wanted was a quiet, well deserved day off. It's not going to happen though, if Mycroft and London's crime scene have anything to do with if. One phone call in a record shop later and Arthur may never get another day off again. Enter the younger Holmes and a romantic tryst of the century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. England v Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!
> 
> 'There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.'  
> \- A Study in Scarlet

Tucked away in a record store in the corner, a nook really, of East Sussex, Arthur Kirkland thought he would've been safe. It was a frayed, indie sort of place where the girls behind the counter had infinity signs tattooed on their wrists and all the men working the stock rooms in the back of the store wore their trousers too low and didn't shave for several consecutive days. There was no wallpaper, just exposed brick, some of it painted and some of it not. Pictures didn't hang on the wall, concert posters did. Instead of curtains and a solid door to the back room, there were strings of beads. Paper lanterns were strung around in awkward places, bring a warm, cozy light different to the grainy, dull sort that came about London. 

It was not a place that well-dressed government types would, or more likely _should_ , not know about. 

But he had been wrong before. Many times. Francis liked ever so much to remind him of those occasions. He was positive that somewhere the frog had a calendar dedicated to and called as much, "England's Famous Fuck-Ups."

Despite his lengthy precaution measures. He had a feeling it wouldn't save him in the end. His favorite pair of ripped, red denims, the very tatty and very beloved Deathly Hallows t-shirt and his Doc Martens would all be in vain. Stabbing his eyebrow bar back into place and dipping into his vast collection of beanies wasn't going to matter in the end.

Even regarding his pessimism, or _realism_  as Arthur preferred, nothing had come up that _overly_ put him on edge. When he'd walked in, the pretty girl behind the counter with the electric blue bob and spider bites had only briefly given him a look from over the top of her book (feminism or something, Arthur noticed) before going back to reading. 

He savored these days off, few and far between, that he spent in the back of record stores and shopping in the London boutiques and looking out over the Thames wrapped up in his RAF pilot jacket and silk scarf his dear Kiku had given him a hundred years ago. Honest to God, he loved his work, his country, his people and his sweater vests (all 17 of them). All though, he could do without all the pompous arseholes and the piles of paper work. For God's sake, he'd been off since Friday afternoon and his hand was still cramping.

Finally making it to the back of the store, Arthur got there without much damage. Only a flirty smack on the backside by a man in a v-neck. Honestly, who other than the frog wore v-necks anymore?

The back smelled like cigarettes (despite the no smoking sign on the front entrance) barely masked with incense that took him back to the days of Beatlemania shortly followed by Freddie Mercury and waiting for the hammer to fall. Deft fingers flipped through the stacks, smiling occasionally at the record jackets. At home he already had a sizable collection. Most of them brought up memories Arthur would have otherwise forgotten, buried in the back of his mind in his mental library of a thousand years or so. Damn, he needed to call up Gil and go back to traveling the bar circuit—

The tinny, sharp sound of his cell phone playing "Anarchy in the UK" echoed up from his jacket pocket. There was only one man in Arthur's phone that had that ringtone and damn it all if that man was going to drag him back behind a desk. 

"What the hell do ya want, Mycroft?" Arthur said, not bothering with the crusty old accent he cared to put on for all the politicians. Mycroft didn't care, as long as what he wanted as achieved in the end. A horrible person, with too large a forehead for his face, Mycroft Holmes, but a respectable one Arthur managed to put up with. (And only partially because Mycroft practically ran most of his government, the git.)

Luckily, Arthur seemed to be alone in the back. No one was watching and V-neck had thankfully disappeared. "Ah, hello to you too, Arthur. Enjoying your day off?"

"I was. 'Til you called anyways."

"Personable as ever, aren't we."

"Get to the point, wanker. I have roughly 18 hours until I'm back behind a desk and I'd like to enjoy them without you blustering into my life, thanks very much."

Static on the other end. A sigh. "Very well. Are you alone?"

Arthur snuck a peek to the front, "As good as."

"There have been several government officials found murdered, their bodies dumped in the Thames. Several government workers with Level 10 clearance."

"Shite."

Level 10 clearance meant Arthur Kirkland, lifelong Londoner, part time guitarist and full time cat owner was actually England, occasionally Britain, lifelong war veteran, part time father and full time world power.

Double shite.

"You suspect I know something about this? Because if you are, you're wrong." Arthur grumbled. He didn't know _why_  Mycroft thought he knew everything that went on within his heart and home, within the country. Vaguely, Arthur could remember a time in which he did, when London wasn't so big and the country as a whole was less populated. Simpler times, those. Occasionally, like now, he longed for those simpler times. 

"No, I wouldn't expect you to." Mycroft said. Arthur curled his lip—so he was in one of his moods today, wasn't he?

"Did you call me just to give me sass or were you actually going to tell me something, especially if _Level 10 security's been breached_?" Arthur replied in the same nasty tone of voice. He knew he was a right pain in the arse to Mycroft, but took pride in it, because damn if that insufferable man didn't need a reality check every now and then. 

Another sigh on the other end of the line, "Look, Arthur. I'm calling to tell you that I've gotten permission from David Cameron and the Queen to involve my brother in this...scandal."

"Homicide."

"What?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Mycroft, I am more than a thousand years old, do _not_ coddle me. It's a homicide, call it what it is. As for your brother...the sociopath, correct?"

" _High-functioning_ sociopath, but yes...Sherlock. And his partner, Dr. John Watson."

"Partner, eh?" Arthur said, moving to cradle the phone between his ear and shoulder, feigning casualty by looking through albums as the blue haired girl from the counter shuffled passed him and disappeared into the stockroom with the tinkling sound of stringed beads. Grabbing his phone again and taking a quick look around, he slipped out the back door into the alley behind the record store.

Mycroft was speaking again, "Purely professional, at this point." Humor. Weird sound for Mycroft—it made Arthur uneasy. "So you've got money on them. All right, well, whatever. Just keep me posted. I heard Sherlock Holmes is the best in this business."

"I assure you, he is." Mycroft said, sounding final. The alley next to the record store was a tight squeeze for even someone as lean and wiry as Arthur. Barely managing to get to the front of the building, he stopped short. A black car parked on the curb. 

"Hullo." Arthur said. 

"Yes, I may have forgotten to mention that I was parked outside."

"I thought you didn't venture out into East Sussex...and you never forget anything, bastard."

"Yes, shame, you'll have to find a new hidey-hole. Get in the car, Arthur. We've more to talk about than one phone call can manage." 

"Fuck."

The anthropomorphic personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland numbly hit the end call button and slipped the phone into his back pocket. If Mycroft was making a personal call, and Level 10 security had been breached...shit, he wasn't getting away from this one.

Arthur wordlessly opened the car door and slid in. A black Bentley the man loved so much. He looked as posh as ever, Mycroft, his suit expertly tailored and shoes shining even in the dim light coming in through the tinted windows. And there Arthur was, with a fucking piece of metal above his eyebrow.

"Personable as ever." Mycroft said, hint of a smile on his smug face. "Oh, belt up," Arthur growled, "Where are you bleedin' taking me, anyways?"

"221b Baker Street," said the man who ran most of his government, a look on his face reminding Arthur of a predator leading its prey to its doom, "and I suggest you take the lovely piece of metal out of your face before we get there."

Arthur flipped Mycroft off, then collapsed into the upholstery. He really wasn't getting another day off anytime soon, was he?


	2. Arthur v Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!
> 
> 'I never guess. It is a shocking habit,—destructive to the logical faculty.'  
> -The Sign of Four

All in all, Mycroft would've had very good music taste if it was 1910. Soft Mozart, lilting and just on Arthur's frame of consciousness, was pumped through speakers into the back of the car. At this point, Arthur was very close to putting in his earphones and turning on some bloody American punk. Not adding to Arthur's plight to stay awake was the folders of paper work done in the tiny, scrawling hand of one of Mycroft's lackeys. It was nearly bleeding impossible to read in the dim light and without his reading glasses. 

From what Arthur could make out, three English officials had been found in the Thames, (for which he was not surprised; the Thames was the most logical place in all of London to hide a body) bound and gagged with the Union Jack carved into the skin above their heart. It gave him chills, thinking about it; London was the heart of the nation, literally, and this could mean someone knew. They knew a secret that had survived millennia—the Dark Ages, plague, anarchy and even the French and it would all be unraveled with three decomposing bodies bound and dumped into a river.

Bloody fuck, it sounded like something out of a bad American action movie.

Giving up on reading the folders, Arthur closed them with a snap and settled himself on the seat. He was too old for this...these scandals, these security breaches. All he wanted to do was go home to his cat and his BBC.

He must've dozed, because the sounds of his car door being opened by Mycroft's driver startled him from his resting position. Getting out of the car, ignoring the help of Mycroft's lackey, he took in the sight around him.

221B was a little hole in the wall next to a cafe, the cafe that was probably smaller than the cottage Scotland raised him in. 221B had a lacquered door, a prestigious looking knocker, and an inlaid doorbell on the side. It looked, just by the door, cozy and well cared for. "Come along then," Mycroft said from behind Arthur, side-stepping him and walking up the steps to snappily ring the doorbell.

Several seconds ticked by before the drawling cry of, "Go away!" echoed from somewhere inside. Mycroft sighed, his perfect posture dipping just slightly, Arthur noticed. The nation stood up a bit straighter—damn his average height!

The lacquered door opened to reveal not a man from which the voice had come from but a petite older woman with wispy graying hair, a turtleneck jumper, and a knock off boutique-quality scarf the frog was always condemning people for wearing. She looked like someone's mother, a grandmother. Her eyes though, Arthur got a bit stuck on—wit sharp.

"Ah, Mycroft, good to see you, dear, and I see you've brought a...client? For Sherlock?"

Mycroft had that little smirk on his face, the one Arthur always wanted to slap off. "Yes, in a way. This is Mr. Arthur Kirkland. Arthur, Mrs. Hudson; my brother's...landlady."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, stepping to the side and letting them in. The inside was as well kept up as Arthur had imagined. "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairwell, "Mycroft's here, he brought you a client!"

Quickly turning back to Mycroft and Arthur, Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Oh, you've definitely come to the right place, dear, if you've got a mystery for Sherlock. He'll fix it right up, you'll see. Would you like a cuppa?"

Arthur didn't have time to respond (and yes, a cuppa sounded brilliant right now) for a stocky, muscular blond man in a shapeless oatmeal colored jumper had come down the steps, a peeved expression on his face. "Mycroft." He said flatly, "and..."

"Arthur Kirkland." Arthur said.

John Hamish Watson, the facts came right up in Arthur's head: 5’6", 167cm or so. Ex army. Doctor. Afghanistan. Discharged—shot in the shoulder. One sister, Harriet Watson, younger. Blue eyes. Blond hair. Extremely loyal extremely quickly. In love with none other than the famous, on infamous depending on who you asked, Sherlock Holmes, though quite in denial about said sexuality.

Arthur had to blink to keep his eyes from crossing. He hated it when that sort of thing happened; the facts got all muddled and he felt a bit weird when he knew more about his citizens than they knew about themselves. "John Watson," John said, extending his hand. Calloused—all the right ways for carrying a gun.

"Please to meet you, Doctor." Arthur said.

A pause, Mycroft and John sharing a look. A look about Arthur that made the nation's skin crawl. "Yes, well," John said after a moment, "Sherlock's upstairs. He'll be ready to see you I suppose. Just...well...Sherlock isn't the most sociable person, so don't get too offended by anything he says or does."

"I'm sure I've met worse, Doctor. Please, lead the way." He had taken a few steps up the staircase when he thought better, "Mrs. Hudson, if the offer still stands, I'd love a cuppa."

"Of course, dear, but just this once, I'm not the housekeeper!"

* * *

The flat Watson and the younger Holmes shared took Arthur back to the days when Alfred would make extreme hours, the sleep cycle of a Harvard Law student, trying to beat "the commie" to the moon, pouring over diagrams and algorithms and other numbers that made Arthur's head hurt. When Alfred wasn't eating or sleeping or playing video games, he really was the closet genius.

Things looked to be hastily straightened up, Arthur's eyes immediately being drawn to a spray painted smiley face on the wall surrounded by bullet holes. Papers had been pulled into hasty piles, a chair set in the middle of the room, most likely for the client, Arthur, to sit in. Holmes, the younger one anyways, was sitting on the couch against the far wall, hair ruffled and hands steepled in a thinking position

Sherlock Holmes. Six feet even, 185cm. High functioning sociopath. Cambridge. Reformed druggie, the hard stuff too, Arthur was impressed. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Calculating. IQ off the charts. Former smoker. Much more than met the eye. Impossible man, impossible mind. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on. Also quite in love with his doctor, less in denial about his or John's sexuality.

"So...Mr. Kirkland. Please. Take a seat."

Arthur dared not straighten his Deathly Hallows t-shirt, because that would be letting Sherlock know that he knew what was going on. Arthur was being _deduced_. He let himself relax into the chair, it was rather comfortable anyways, and let himself feel the room instead of see it, a trick he learned back in his glory days.

Mycroft and John stood in the doorway, simply watching. That's about all they could do at this point, Arthur realized. The former empire propped one Doc Marten on the opposite knee, waiting for the detective in front of him to start speaking.

The answer came as a bit of a shock to everyone.

"How?"

"Excuse me?" Arthur asked, more curious than insulted.

"Sherlock..." John said from behind.

"The Deathly Hallows t-shirt is well worn. A Harry Potter fan—"

"Like most of Britain." Arthur mumbled.

"—wearing tight jeans and Doc Martens. Earrings. Smells of stale smoke and incense. Hair is a bit ruffled from the wind. Combining that I'd say you were in one of the record stores of The Lanes in Brighton. You greeted John as ' _Doctor'_ , though he gave you no indication of his title. Then there's your posture, that of a long time soldier, punks tend to slump and draw into themselves, there's several scars on your neck and arms, almost visible but long since faded, definitely enough to get you discharged but yet there's more." He suddenly slammed his fist down on the wall, and Arthur could tell John and Mycroft flinched. Arthur remained motionless.

"Not a flinch." A pause, Sherlock regaining his thoughtful position, "The temperament of a father. This room reminded you of something, you looked at it fondly, like one does their child. Married, for quite some time as the indent on your finger indicates, the ring, if I may?"

Arthur removed the ring and tossed it to him. Sherlock removed a small magnifying glass from his trouser pocket and held it up to simple gold band. "Over one hundred years old, taken on and off for a good seventy. I'd first say that this was some sort of family heirloom but it's worn into the shape of only your finger. You look 25 at most."

"23." Arthur said, holding his hand out for the ring.

"You are expecting me to obey."

"Power complex, or so I've been told." Prussia, France, America, Spain, the Italy's...constantly.

"How does a twenty-three-year-old punk with some military experience, a power complex, father-like attributes and a one hundred year old wedding ring come into contact with the man who practically runs the British government?"

"It's a bit hard not to, when it's part of the job."

"The job?" He looked intrigued, masked on his face but eyes alive with unfeigned curiosity.

"Brother," Mycroft said tightly from behind, "I'd like you to meet the anthropomorphic personification of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He's here about the murders."

"Of course he's here about the murders."

"Wait," John said, bringing everything to a halt. "There have been plenty of murders and serial killings before, why is he here now, for this one? Why would a personification of a bloody country be here, at some little flat in London, with _Mycroft Holmes_ of all the bloody people."

"Yes, please. Mycroft, explain to me, and Doctor Watson here, why I am here. Why you pulled me off the street in East Sussex of all places. Christ." Arthur said, craning his neck from his seated position to looked Mycroft in the eye. He looked to barely be containing his cool.

"He kidnaps you too?" John asked, then his eyes widened and he shook his head, "No, no don't answer that. How bloody old are you, if you're the personification of the United Kingdoms of—oh, shit, you know what I mean?"

"Please, England is fine. And...several thousand years at least. It's hard to keep track these days." Arthur relaxed again in his chair, John coming around to be able to look the nation in the eye. Mycroft followed. Sherlock, obviously not being please about not being the center of attention (superiority complex; America in two words) said, "Really, John, _use your head_. Something's wrong, his secret is endangered and he's about as happy being here and I am with Mycroft. It's the Union Jack above the heart isn't it?"

Arthur stood, the two standing in the room taking a step back. He was only 5'9", but he liked to think he took up a few more inches in physical presence. "Not to mention who the victims were. Now, before we get into all the gory details I'm sure both Holmses are looking forward to, John, I do believe your landlady said something about a cup of tea?"

 


	3. Arthur v 221B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!
> 
> "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."  
> -The Hound of the Baskervilles

So far, Arthur concluded as he watched Sherlock disappear into himself, horizontally on the small sofa, and John try and tidy up the flat for the British Government and Great Britain himself, the best part of today had to be the cuppa (very good tea, Earl Grey fixed everything) in his hand and the very comfortable chair under his arse. His legs stretched in front of him, one heel balanced on top of the other toe, he was comfortable and not in any hurry to go anywhere. He'd seen enough dead bodies to fill four million lifetimes of two people combined, thank you.

"So..." John said idly, finally stopping his nervous cleaning and squishing himself onto the small sofa next to Sherlock. Well, really it was more like repositioning the taller man’s feet on top of his lap in order to sit down somewhat comfortably. "Does he do this often?" Arthur asked, waving to the stoic Sherlock next to John. The doctor perked up. "Oh, Sherlock? Yes, all the time, goes to his _Mind Palace_ and sorts things out. He puts himself in some sort of self-induced coma, the way I see, medically speaking, and wakes himself back up when the job is done."

"Fascinating." Arthur said, sipping the last of his tea and putting the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair.

"Oh, I'll take that for you," John said, getting up carefully as not to disturb the consulting detective, picking up the dishes with a clink of china. As soon as John entered the kitchen area, Sherlock's eyes flew open. "Why would they just stop at Great Britain? There's meetings, public appearances, anyone undercover at the right time and place could figure out who exactly each anthropomorphic personification is. Call Lestrade, John and tell him—"

"Sherlock, I can't hear you, I'm in the kitchen—"

Arthur watched, bemused, as Sherlock stood up and marched to the kitchen to tell John and not Arthur and certainly not Mycroft his theory. Intriguing, Arthur thought, that Sherlock went first to John, even when it was obvious he wasn't in the room. Dependent. Human. It wasn’t what most people thought about Sherlock Holmes.

Arthur caught a look from Mycroft. "I told you," the man said, smirk on his face growing, " _partners._ "

Chuckling, Arthur nodded. He quickly sobered though, as Sherlock’s deduced words finally hit home; not stopping at Great Britain? Was he just the jumping off point?

Before he could voice his idea to Mycroft, Sherlock had raced into the room like a man possessed. He grabbed the sleek laptop on the table by the window and sat down in the chair across from Arthur with a flourish of dressing gown. “The most common meeting you go to outside of the UK?” Sherlock said, phrasing the question almost more like a statement than a question. Arthur’s brain went haywire; the meetings started to become thoughtless after a while; a century or so and they all tended to blend together. Now the last one, had any of the Commonwealth been there or not?

“Well, I’d have to say EU meetings, but that doesn’t mean that’s the one our killer—or _killers_ , I see that look, Mr. Holmes—would target. Europe is corrupt and many countries aren’t particularly wealthy or noticed. Sure, there’s the UN meetings, but those get messy and tedious and there’s too many targets, too many _useless_ targets. The one you need to focus on is the annual G8 Summit meeting.” Arthur said, matching gazes with the younger Holmes, waiting for anyone to try and correct him.

“G8 Summit meetings?” chorused John and Sherlock. From out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur could see Mycroft roll his eyes exasperatedly. Arthur did his best to hide his smirk. A government official with a little brother that didn’t have the head for politics, the poor man. With a sigh, Arthur got to his feet, marched the short distance to where Sherlock was sitting and snatched the laptop from him. “Yes, lesser known but certainly one of the most important meetings that takes place in the world.”

Arthur opened a new tab and pulled up the Wikipedia page on the G8 before setting it back down in Sherlock’s lap. John quickly crossed the room and peered down at the page from his place at Sherlock’s shoulder. Turning away from the detective and his blogger, Arthur began to pace the room, “The G8 is made up of the world’s eight highest grossing per capita countries, if you don’t count China, possibly seven if Russia’s taken out because of this whole Crimea thing, but that’s not the point. These are the most influential countries, worldwide. The anthropomorphic personifications and our bosses in one globally known location once a year for two days only. You wouldn’t _believe_ security.”

Arthur looked over to where now both the Holmes brothers and John were gathered around the laptop. “Says here this year’s is in Sochi,” John read, reaching over Sherlock’s shoulder to scroll the page down, “Bit far from England.”

“Yes, Russia, so why would the bodies end up here; bodies so far only from the UK but with the right knowledge, you could pick out any personification you wanted, and you could have any of the strongest countries in the world, at your feet.” Sherlock thought aloud. Arthur wasn’t too pleased where that train of thought was going. He cleared his throat.

“In the thousands of years I’ve been around, I’ve been burned at the stake twice for witchcraft; mostly during the Wars of the Roses because I didn’t have a solid government and the monarchy was absolute shite, but that certainly proves one thing: personifications are meant to blend in with the crowd. It isn’t easy to spot us if you don’t know what you’re looking for, we skirt under the radar. That’s the whole _point_ of us, to give a subtle protection without drawing too much attention to ourselves.” Arthur said. He’d brought a silence to the trio in front of him. Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, raising one articulate eyebrow, “What are you getting at, Arthur? That this shouldn’t have happened in the first place?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, copying Mycroft from minutes earlier, opening his mouth to explain, Sherlock cutting him off, “Of course that’s what he’s getting at Mycroft, why wouldn’t it be? He’s saying that someone would have needed to know what to look for—”

“Insider knowledge,” was John’s interruption.

“—yes John, so someone from the government would’ve had to either be the killer or the accomplice. Obviously. Who else knows of your existence, Mr. Kirkland?”

He had to think about that one. There was a file, sitting in his flat that contained the list of people that knew he existed, or the extent of their clearance, but he didn’t know it by heart. It hadn’t really mattered too much before; it wasn’t his job to know those sorts of things. “Well, the Queen, David Cameron, you three, obviously, anyone with level ten security, and Jane.”

“Jane?” Sherlock raised a brow and Arthur was suddenly hit with the family resemblance of the Holmes brothers.

“My secretary,” Arthur explained.

“I’ll need a list,” Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded, “A list I can provide. In the meantime, I believe I must inform her Majesty your next move. Any ideas what it might be?” Mycroft’s tone was light, but carried the demeaning edge that it usually came with. Oh, if Arthur had a pence for every time he wanted to roll his eyes at the man who practically had more influence on his government than the Prime Minister…

“Well, seems logical to call the other personifications and warn them, right? We’ve decided that it’s not contained in this country or this continent, shouldn’t we at least notify someone?” John said. Arthur shared a look with Mycroft, “Doable, though I believe it would be best if I or someone from the government made the call. Two blokes that solve crimes wouldn’t go over well I should think, internationally.” Arthur reasoned.

The personification could physically see Sherlock’s face morph into a pout at that statement. Mycroft tapped his leg with his umbrella, “I should think so. Arthur, I deem you in charge of that operation, it is most likely you will get the best results. For now, though—”

The sound of a mobile ringing interrupted the elder Holmes. John dug into his trouser pocket to retrieve his mobile. “It’s Lestrade,” he said, before answering it, “Hullo?”

There was a terse silence in the flat as John listened to what Lestrade was saying on the other line. The former army doctor would interrupt every now and then with, “Yes, yes, he’s already notified us, mhm, Sherlock’ll be happy to take the case, yes, we know that...” and then with something that surprised Arthur, “Yeah, he’s got someone from…special operations, in the government. We’ll be right there, in let’s say…”

“Where are they?” Sherlock inquired. His hands had once again attained their steepled position under his chin. John quickly removed the phone from his ear for a second, covering the speaker as he said, “Hungerford bridge.”

“Seven and a half.”

“We’ll be there in seven and a half minutes, according to Sherlock. Yes, see you.” John hung up, with a grim look on his face, pocketing his mobile. “More bodies, I’m assuming,” Arthur said.

John nodded, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Three more. But not with Union Jacks above their hearts. They’ve branched out, we were right. Canadian, American and French.” Arthur’s heart immediately plummeted into the bottom of his stomach. He should’ve have known it was coming, the possibility had been on the table since the beginning, but the idea of dragging his family into this made him want to vomit. He ran a hand through his hair, replacing his beanie on the crown of his head. “So it’s begun.”

“Your family.” Sherlock said. Arthur looked up as Sherlock was going to add more, only to be sternly cut off by his flatmate, “ _Leave it,_ Sherlock.”

Arthur hopped to his feet, feeling the adrenaline already coursing through his system. Time to get a move on, conspiracies like these meant turf wars, and they were losing ground by each minute wasted, “Well, you two have a crime scene to get to, I’ve got phone calls to make, Mycroft has a country to go rule. Why are we standing around here?”

Sherlock was halfway across the room, dressing gown flung onto the sofa, before Arthur had finished his thought. “He’s right, John, crime scene to get to, we’re already running behind!” John grumbled something that Arthur didn’t quite catch about unmanageable sociopaths before jogging down the steps where Sherlock had disappeared moments before.

Then there were two.

“So, you going to give me a ride home or will I have to catch a cab?” Arthur said, turning to Mycroft. The man tilted his head towards the door, “Just for a quick visit, we’ll meet up with my brother and Dr. Watson at St. Bart’s shortly, as soon as you change out of that ghastly t-shirt. The anthropomorphic personification of _Great Britain_ running around in _Doc Martens_ , what has the world come to?” Mycroft strode out of the room, leaving the obvious invitation for Arthur to follow. A long sigh escaped the blond man, standing alone in someone else’s flat with a brand new conspiracy group out there on the streets on London and infiltrating his government. Well, he had nothing to lose; he’d just have to pick up his gun from his flat and do his best to protect his family. Listlessly, he patted the back of the chair he’d been sitting in and crossed the room to the entrance of the flat. With one last look around, he closed the door with a click.


	4. Arthur v his Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!
> 
> 'Watson. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.'  
> -Adventure of the Creeping Man

**Portland, Maine; the United States of America**

**10:37 EST**

Alfred's phone was half way across the room and there was a polar bear on top of him. No, it wasn't a metaphor for something.

If the ringtone was anything to go by, it was Iggy calling him about something, God knew what. It would've only been about 3:30 over there right? Way too early for Iggy to be barhopping and drunk out of his mind yet.

Had some American celebrity done something uncouth again? Probably, but it was hardly like England to bring it up in a trans-Atlantic phone call. Especially since it wasn't even around the Christmas season. Wait, had he, Alfred, done something that could have upset him? Sure, but for the life of him he couldn't remember. Whatever, there was a polar bear on top of him, the phone could wait.

"Hey Al!" Matthew called from the kitchen, "Is that your phone?"

"Yeah, I think it's Iggy!" Alfred yelled back, trying to shift Kumajiro off of him. It was harder than it looked, as he was a) trying not to disturb the sleeping fluff ball and b) trying not to fall of the couch in the process. "Why aren't you getting it!?"

"News flash, baby bro, there's a polar bear on top of me! I think it went to voicemail anyways!"

There was some grumbling from the general direction of the kitchen as Matthew entered with two cups of coffee, setting them on the coffee table in front of Al as he scooped up his brother's phone from its place on the arm of one of the overstuffed chairs. He chucked the phone carelessly at Al's face (his brother had a thick skull and quick enough reflexes so it wouldn't  _really_  hurt him) before helping Al move Kuma-whatsit to the armchair to squeeze in between Al and the back of the couch.

They were close, even for brothers; everyone told them so. Matthew often blamed in on separation anxiety; after being together, wild and free for so long, only to be split up under different mentors, and later when Alfred declared his independence. After finally being allowed to reunite again, Matthew knew he was never going to give Alfred up again. Alfred, on the other hand, always thought that it was because they themselves, as a land, a people, as countries, were so interconnected it felt like losing your other half when the other wasn't around.

Now, with Matt's lanky limbs thrown casually over his brother, they had a little down time for once. "Why do you think Dad called?" Matt asked.

"Old man probably forgot when the next meeting was and was too embarrassed to call Francis." Al said. His eyes had slipped shut, comfortable to just be reclining, warm and comfortable with his brother. Matt had started to play the voice mail.

" _Hello Alfred, it's Arthur. It has to be a decent hour of the morning over there, wherever you are, so get up you lazy arse because there's something I need to talk to you about. If I remember correctly, you're still with Matthew, which is good because I need to talk to him too. I'm going to call him next, he's hopefully being a tad more productive. If you don't hear from him, do call back. Good-bye."_

No sooner had the tinny sound of Arthur's recorded voice cut out, Matthew's phone had begun to ring. Trying not to elbow his brother in the chest in order to get his phone out of his sweatshirt pocket, Matthew picked up on the third ring.

"Dad?"

"Ah, yes, hullo Matthew. Are you with Alfred, still? I've got to tell you something the both of you will want to hear."

"Yeah, he's right here, let me put you on speaker phone, hold on."

Matthew situated himself on the couch so he wasn't in any danger of elbowing or kneeing his brother anywhere. His legs were more or less sprawled across Al's, one hip digging into the sofa. The Canadian pulled the phone away from his ear long enough to press the speaker button.

"Hey, Ig, 'sup?" Al said, reclining his head back into his hands. There was an audible, dramatic sigh from the other side of the line. Poor Arthur, Matthew thought, as he held back a small smirk.

"'What's up' is that you two boys need to get over here. There's been a series of murders, of  _important people_ , if you catch my drift. I've got someone on it, but it would be best if you both came over. You never know who, other than Al's people of course—"

"I resent that, old man," Al huffed.

"—could be tapping the lines."

Matthew lunged for one of the throw pillows at the end of the couch, grabbing it by the corner and hitting Al over the head with it. The northern brother often wished Al could keep his mouth shut, at least more often than not. Obviously, if the  _important people_  their dad was talking about were the same  _important people_  that Matt thought they were, they were in trouble.

"We'll get on the next flight there, Dad. Is it just going to be the three of us or…?"

There were some noises on the other end of the line that sounded as though Arthur was having a muffled conversation with somebody. After a few moments, Arthur cleared his throat, "Yes, well, the frog, I suppose, but I have yet to call him so don't bet on his lazy, surrendering arse being here! Now look, I've got to run, we're at the crime scene—"

"Crime scene?!" Alfred exclaimed. Matthew matched his look of shock, almost dropping his cell phone.

"—stop bloody interrupting me, yes the  _crime scene_. I said I had people working on it. One of them happens to be me. Now look, really I've got to go. Scotland Yard is starting to give me weird looks. See you boys soon."

"See ya, Ig."

"Bye, Dad, stay safe."

As soon as the dial tone came over the line, Matthew hung up his end and collapsed back into the couch cushions. For several minutes neither of the brothers said anything, off in their own thoughts regarding the abrupt and almost  _out of character_  phone call they had just received from one of their father figures. Matthew was only taken out of his reverie when he realized Kuma had started to drink one of the cups of coffee now cold on the table.

"Ugh, come here." Matthew said, leaning down to scoop up the squirming bear and deposit him on Al's chest. "Who're you?" the white bear said.

"I'm Canada." "America, for the thousandth time."

The two sighed in sync, Al sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of the couch. Sharing a look over the top of Kuma's head, at the same time they muttered, "Well, fuck."

Al reached for the mostly full coffee cup on the coffee table and took a swig, wincing at the cooling temperature. He then leaned back into the cushion and allowed his arm to wrap around his brother whose head was now on the elder's shoulder. The two continued in their silence for a few seconds before Al, with a grain of salt in his voice, said, "S'pose I better call Helen and book those plane tickets, huh?" He pushed up to a standing position and collected the other soiled cup from the coffee table. Matt followed example, also getting to his feet.

"Damn, I need to call the Prime Minister."

"Do you want me to 'round up the toiletries?"

"Yeah and grab those defense contracts we were looking at earlier. We might need those."

"Gotcha. I'm gonna grab a couple of my old Harvard textbooks, too."

"Good idea. I'm surprised none of us felt it sooner.  _Dad_  had to call us."

"Ya know an average of seven people a day die in the US? I'm not completely surprised. My population is also like, ten times as big as yours."

"Point taken. And if you're going to the study, can you grab Kuma's carrier while you're up there!"

"Already there, little brother!"

**Carcassonne,** **Languedoc Roussillon; la Republique Français**

**5:03 CET**

Francis Bonnefoy was perfectly content to relax in the back garden of his lovely southern home with a good book, a glass of wine, and the garden spread about before him (the English rose bushes just a stone's throw away a gift, of course). It was a clear day, spring under way certainly, but this close to the Mediterranean, it was perfect.

Perfect, save for the sound of  _God Save the Queen_  coming from  _la portable_  in his pocket. He almost didn't answer it; sure it was  _Arthur_  but if the stern, reserved nation truly needed him, he could've sent a text and not feel the need to disrupt the peace Francis had finally achieved after a long stretch of endless paperwork.

But it was  _Arthur_  and that was reason enough.

" _Allo, mon cher,_ " Francis said, stretching back in his chair as he picked up the phone.

"Hullo, Francis." Arthur's voice sounded from the other end. He sounded tired and worn, the tone he got when something bad had happened and he didn't know what to do. The last time Francis had heard that worrying tone it was the bombing of the Twin Towers when America had fallen to his knees, coughing up blood in the middle of a meeting. Arthur had been absolutely distraught, not leaving the boy's side until he'd opened his eyes, 12 hours after the attack. Francis had had to restrain the urge to comfort his lover the best way he knew how.

The Frenchman rose to his feet, grabbing his wine and his book and slipping back inside through the back door. "What's the matter,  _cher_ , you're using that tone of voice again. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Oh, Francis, there've been  _murders_ , of the people who  _know_." There was great pain in his voice, an exasperated pain. Francis wished that he could reach through the phone and take the smaller nation up into his arms and cradle him close.

"Our officials have been killed?"

A shaky breath, "Found in the Thames. Four bodies with the Union Jack above the heart and three others, one American, one Canadian and one French. All level ten."

" _Merde._ When was this? Have you called the boys? Are they all right? Oh,  _Arthur_."

"About an hour ago. I'm sure my people have already called yours. As for the boys, I've already called them. They're surely on their way by now."

"Let me make a few calls, Arthur," Francis said, now ascending the stairs to his bedroom to throw some clothes into a suitcase and possibly arrange a flight. "If I hurry, I can be there in two and a half hours. I can meet you for dinner."

He switched hands to cradle the phone next to his left ear as he dug out some underpants from his dresser drawer. "Shall I meet you at your flat?"

There was a lengthy pause on the other end. Francis was just about to repeat his question, thinking the other man hadn't heard him, before Arthur chipped in finally and said, "No, you'll want to catch a cab from Heathrow to 221B Baker Street. I've got someone on the case and it's probably best if you meet them as soon as you can."

"Ah,  _d'accord_. I shall see you very soon then,  _mon cher_. Please try to hang in there, Arthur, get yourself a cup of tea. We'll figure this out. We stopped those fucking Germans twice, we can stop some damn conspiracy." Francis said. He didn't like to swear, really, especially not in English because it sounded so  _crude_ , but Arthur understood expletives almost better than proper English.

"Yes, of course, frog, I'm just being silly. We'll figure this out. I'll see you soon, then."

" _Je t'aime, mon amour._ You'll be all right without be for a couple more hours, won't you?" There was a smile finally creeping back into Francis' voice. He had successfully calmed down Arthur and the world falling to shit could be put on hold for at least a few more hours.

"You git, I'll be bleedin' perfect. But, yeah, love you too, I s'pose."

Francis sat down heavily at the end of his bed, running his hand over the fine Egyptian cotton. They had gone through worse together, they'd get through this just fine.

Even so, Francis raised his left hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the gold band around his third finger and  _prayed_.


	5. Arthur v Francis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The games is on!
> 
> "You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles." - The Bascombe Valley Mystery

By the time Francis had gotten to his gate at Heathrow, there was a text message from Arthur waiting for him when he switched his mobile off of airplane mode.

_New plan, ask the cabbie to take you to St. Bartholomew's hospital. Ask for Sherlock Holmes._

Francis cocked his head to the side. Something obviously must've come up, for Arthur to switch plans so suddenly like that. Even so, he tapped at the message:  _See you soon then ;) <3_

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned away from the gate to go collect the rest of his luggage.

* * *

Arthur had been watching Sherlock examine the bodies for the last hour at least, watching a perpetually skittish Molly Hooper flit around Sherlock who was deep in deduction. John had stepped out to grab a cup of coffee at least twice.

The second time, John had leaned up against the wall next to Arthur long enough to comment, "I've never seen him work so diligently with the victims like this before. He's usually done in about twenty minutes."

"There's more evidence this time," Arthur said, "And he has freer reign over this one, considering there's actually a government or two backing him up this time."

"Yes, well, that certainly makes this slightly easier for all of us." John said.

Arthur chuckled.

"Ugh," Sherlock suddenly sighed, sounded utterly exasperated, "Molly, Molly, I need a microscope pen."

"Right away, Sherlock!" Molly said, placing one next to Sherlock before returning to her reports. All in all, the bodies had been a gruesome thing to find in the Thames. Drowning had always seemed to Arthur as a particularly nasty way to go, even if the latest set of bodies had not been drowned, according to Sherlock, but DOA of being thrown into the river in the heart of London. Different, it was, between the British set of victims, and the international ones.

The most shocking thing to be found on the bodies, though, were the flags carved over the hearts of each of the victims. Red, being a color that Britain, France, America and Canada all shared in their flag, was the main coloring used in the crude pictures, made from deep scratches in the victims' skin. The red stripes on the British, French and American flags showed brightly against the pale, bloated skin and the red background of the pale maple leaf showed even better. Looking at the pictures too long made Arthur sick to his stomach, and he'd seen some pretty ghastly things in his day.

At this point in the day, the urge to go home, curl up with his cat and his  _Top Gear_ , without all the murdering and conspiracy and barking-mad detectives was ever stronger. He could've really used the frog right now, gliding in as if he walked on air with that stupid accent and stupid smile and some encouraging word that would only apply to him. Especially now, at times like this, Arthur really hated being an island nation.

Between John's coffee breaks and small moments of companionship the doctor provided during Sherlock's extensive study, Arthur had checked his phone every ten minutes or so. It was partially to keep an eye on the time, and partially to see if there were any updates from the frog. The last text message the Frenchman had sent with the winky face and the heart had been almost an hour ago, but then again, Heathrow was some ways away. And it was rush hour.

"Aha," Sherlock said.

"Find something?" John asked, taking a step closer to the consulting detective.

"The gashes that made the flag depictions on the body were made with a pock-marked blade, probably very old, if the composites in the skin tissue are anything to go by. It seems to be single-edged, and very dull. Not surprising, I should think, if the blade was old. I have several theories as to what the blade might be, but do you think you can name anything like that, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur thought for a moment, running the list of weapons he had used before in past eras through his head. It was quite a long list, and there were several things that could fit the description, just as Sherlock had said.

"Well," Arthur began, "do you have a relative time frame for how old? Because there's all sorts of daggers, or maybe even a short sword, that would probably do the trick."

"I'll have to evaluate the delicacy of the gashes then, to give you more precise information." Sherlock said, "And maybe give a call to the local historical society, hm?"

He paused and looked expectantly at John, as it took a moment for the army doctor to take the hint. "Oh, yes, well, I'd best be calling." He excused himself and left the lab.

"Very dear, but a bit slow on the uptake at times." Sherlock said more to himself than the other two occupants of the room, sounding ever like his landlady, before going back to his corpses. Arthur took the time to explore the lab a bit, recognizing some chemicals and machinery as things Alfred had shown him before, at his office at NASA. But Arthur had never truly been one for maths and science and nowadays even hunching over his taxes for too long made his head hurt.

Truly, he wished for a good Dickens novel.

There was a slightly tap on the door that caught the attention of both Arthur and Molly Hooper, who finally looked up from whatever she was pouring over. A moment later a very familiar figure entered the room, dragging a suitcase behind him, a carryon bag perched on his shoulder, blue eyes tired but alert and bright. Francis had finally found his way back to Arthur.

"Traffic was horrible." Francis said, almost sheepishly. His smile was sincere, even as he dropped his bag and let go of his suitcase to hold out his arms, expecting a hug.

"Now  _Angleterre_ , I did not just fly business class and brave the ever-pleasant London traffic to not  _at least_  get a welcome hug." Francis said, "Although I'd prefer a kiss even more."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be pulled tightly, if briefly, into the Frenchman's arms and press a quick peck to the corner of Francis' mouth. It wasn't as if Sherlock was really paying attention anyways, and Molly Hooper seemed a bit too stunned to say anything, at least more than make a small, surprised squeaking sound.

"Missed you." Arthur said quietly into the Frenchman's ear. Francis squeezed Arthur's side, "You'll just have to show me how much tonight." Arthur pulled away, making sure Francis could see him rolling his eyes.

It was good timing too, that the hug had come to an end, as John and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade has chosen that moment to enter. This time, Sherlock looked up briefly, eyes first looking to John, skimming over Lestrade and Arthur and ending up on Francis, as though surprised on how he had gotten there.

"Oh," John said, stopping short, "Hullo there."

"Dr. Watson, DI Lestrade, Miss Hooper and Sherlock, this is my…ah… _associate_. François Bonnefoy," Arthur started, looking to Francis briefly.

" _Oui_ ," Francis agreed, amused by the title given to him, "We have been associated for  _quite_  some time. But please, call me Francis."

Francis proceeded to shake both John and Lestrade's hands (though not before commenting on the very  _French_  background of the DI's surname) and when introduced to Sherlock and Molly Hooper, he gave each a respectful nod. "Now," Francis began as soon as they were all introduced, although with Sherlock it was really more like talking to a wall, "I've been told there's been a few murders and the start of a conspiracy."

"Quite," Sherlock spoke for the first time in what seemed like quite a long while. ("I only wish we could get him to be this quiet all the time," Arthur heard Lestrade whisper to John.) "Has anyone, most likely, and unfortunately, my brother, updated you on our current standing?"

Francis shook his head, taking a step closer to the consulting detective, "I'm sure I've only read the same files Arthur has had access to. Please, Mr. Holmes, enlighten me, would you?"

There was something about the Frenchman's enigmatic smile that pulled you in and made you feel wanted. Desirable. It was just the sort of aura that hung around him. Arthur was not surprised to see a blush rise to the high cheeks of the tall, dark haired man as he began his tale, even a man as self-controlled and aromantic it seemed (unless John Watson was concerned) as Sherlock Holmes. Francis just sort of…did that to people.

Things sort of moved along as Francis was filled in by Sherlock in a surprisingly  _polite_  manner. It took Arthur a few seconds to realize that they were speaking in French; if the situation had not been so bleak, Arthur knew Francis would have been smiling. He loved it when people surprised him by knowing even a little of his home and native tongue.

Lestrade, meanwhile, had other news. "As if this isn't enough…"

Arthur turned to where he and John were standing, "Please tell me they haven't found  _more_  bodies?"

John shook his head. "No, thankfully. But I just got off the phone with a couple of people from the Museum of London, and hours ago,  _literally_  hours ago, there was some undetected break in in the archives."

Furrowing his brow, Arthur asked, "Anything stolen?"

The good doctor shrugged, "They're not sure yet, they say. Told me that me 'n Sherlock could come around tomorrow and poke around a bit."

"Scratch that," Sherlock said, still next to Francis, "Arthur and I will go to the Museum. You, John, will stay here with  _Monsieur_  Bonnefoy and take a look at the evidence. I have all that I can gather with my unfortunately limited knowledge of the medical field. I need profiles John. Medical profiles, by tomorrow."

Francis suddenly turned to Arthur, "Alfred would be able to help with that. He has some degree in medicinal science,  _n'est pas_?"

"Something like that, I'm sure," Arthur agreed, "Matthew can always come with John and me. He's still part of the Commonwealth as much as you gripe and moan about it, frog. Some history would do him some good."

"So then it's settled!" Sherlock said, a smug smile adorning his face. It reminded Arthur of a spoiled child who had once again gotten their way. Before John could get another word in, Sherlock declared, "The game is on!"

* * *

 

Arthur and Francis had politely declined John's offer of meeting back up at 221B and ordering Thai takeout. It was pushing half-seven or so and Arthur couldn't bear the thought of not being home for another hour and a half. There was stuff for cold sandwiches in the fridge at Arthur's flat and if they truly needed to, they could always order a pizza.

Finally back, mostly safe and pretty sound, at his flat, Arthur wasted no time and plopping on the couch with all the intention of staying there for a good while. Francis snorted briefly, freely and un-Francis like, before dropping his luggage off in Arthur's bedroom and soon joining his husband on the couch.

To be honest, Arthur wasn't quite sure how and when they ended up curled around each other on the couch, but sooner or later, Arthur had his head on the frog's chest, fingers of his right hand intertwined with Francis' left. The Englishman stopped briefly to admire the delicate gold band around the other's ring finger before he could bring himself to say, "I honestly don't know what to do."

Francis' chuckle had a bit of a sardonic edge, "What is this turning into? A murdering, buglaring conspiracy group?"

"It appears so."

"Merde."

"My sentiments exactly."

Francis sighed before taking his right arm and draping it a bit more snugly around Arthur's back and middle. "At least the boys arrive soon. It'll be good for everyone to have a fresh pair of eyes on the matter."

"They'll bring order, I'm sure. They won us two world wars."

"Obviously everyone in Europe is just daft," Francis said, sarcasm dripping.

Arthur couldn't contain the short bark of laughter that erupted from him as he left go of Francis' hand and placed it over the Frenchman's heart. "Well, they don't call us the  _Old_  Men of Europe for nothing, I suppose."

It was quite for a while as Francis stroked Arthur's back and Arthur listened to the hum and vibration of the city around them. Finally, Francis said, "Are we truly getting  _old_ ,  _Angleterre_?"

Arthur pulled himself up enough to prop himself up on his elbow. Teasingly, he reached down to pat Francis' hair, "Hold on, I think I see a grey hair."

"Stop it, you."

In all seriousness, Arthur ended up shrugging one shoulder, "We've been considered old for a very long time now, Francis. I think I've come to accept it."

Francis, in all seriousness, ended up pouting at the words coming out of Arthur's mouth. "Well, I certainly haven't. And now you've succeeded in making me depressed."

"Sincerest apologies," Arthur smirked.

At some point as they lay there together, Francis' hand started trailing lower and lower, untucking Arthur's button down and sneaking up Arthur's back. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "If you're really trying for what I know you're trying for, you're going to be doing most of the work if we do because I am  _thoroughly_  exhausted."

"Don't I anyways?" Francis was all wry grin and coquettish eyes.

"Oh belt up, tosser." England growled, but allowed himself to be carried (like he hadn't been for probably 60-70 years or so) to the bedroom by his ever eager partner.

It wasn't as if the boys didn't have a spare key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur mentions that the NA bros helped them win two world wars, I want to point out that there is some truth to that. Certainly during WWI when America entering the war in 1917 helped turn the war effort around. But in WW2, I hope everybody knows that as much as us Americans like to brag about "kicking Nazi ass" (I mean, we have a damn superhero and everything) and liberating France and all that (I mean, we did do that) the Soviets were basically fighting most of the German army the entire time.
> 
> So there's your history lesson for today. (Who said fanfiction wasn't educational?) Any comments made in the story are strictly for prose (hopefully no one is offended)!


	6. Arthur v NAFTA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on!
> 
> 'Come, Watson, come!' he cried. 'The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!'  
> -The Adventure of the Abbey Grange

Don’t get him wrong. Matthew knew all about European disasters. Like that whole Black Death thing? That was pretty weird. And those two world wars? Don’t even get him started. But _another_ conspiracy theory? What was this, the 20 th century? Or worse yet, _America?_

Alfred had been on his phone as soon as they touched down at Heathrow, and not just on Twitter this time either, or Instagraming a pic of them at baggage claim. For once, he seemed to be engaged in doing his job. In the time it had taken them to grab their luggage, exchange their American greenbacks for pounds sterling, catch the Tube to catch a taxi to Arthur’s flat, Alfred must’ve been on and off the phone with at least a dozen US officials. The head of the CIA, the FBI, Al’s secretary Helen, Bill Clinton at one point; Matt forgot the rest.

In the meantime, Matthew had received a couple of texts from Mr. Harper giving him updates as to what the Canadian Parliament was doing. Lines had been opened up with Al’s Congress as soon as they had gotten on the plane to England; and they still were negotiating if the North American Brothers would be acting together or separately. Matthew had a feeling that sooner or later, it wouldn’t be up to them anymore.

“I swear to God,” Al said as they finally slid into the cab after a train ride that seemed to stretch on far longer than in should have, “If this starts another European war…”

He didn’t have to finish. Matthew wholeheartedly agreed.

The ride to Arthur’s flat always seemed longer than it really was. The winding London streets seemed to go on forever in the same monotonous way; every once and a while they’d pass a notable London landmark that they never seemed to have time to visit, except of course, Buckingham Palace. Matthew remembered that one well. The London Eye shone bright against the black, English sky and illuminated their faces through the car window. It was odd, every time he came here, to see everyone driving on the wrong side of the road.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Saskatchewan anymore, Matt thought to himself.

Arthur’s flat wasn’t far from Whitehall; and very posh, just like the owner, if Matt was being honest. In the spring, the window boxes would be blooming with flowers, carefully tended by Arthur throughout growing season. Now though, in the dark and misty night, the house looked looming and a bit dreary. Through the cab window, Matthew could see Arthur’s cat, Gawain (because Arthur had a weird sense of humor and far too much time on his hands to read Arthurian literature) perched on the window sill, looking out onto the London streets. Below him, Matthew felt Kuma shift in his carrier.

As they finally came to a stop at the curb, Alfred paid the cabbie (even though Matt was pretty sure it was his turn to pick up the tab) and moved out to get the rest of their luggage from the trunk of the car. Or the boot, Matt guessed, as they called it here in England. Matthew followed Al.

As they collected their luggage, Matthew fished around in his jacket pocket for the spare key Arthur had given them to his flat; given to Matthew and not Alfred, but that was probably for the best. The front door opened soundlessly as Matthew pushed it open, and they were met with the soft sound of cat paws hitting the hardwood floor. Gawain regarded them for a brief moment, looking entirely uninterested, before waltzing away like nothing had happened. Matthew heard Al say something that sounded like, “Damn cat,” but he could’ve been wrong.

He definitely heard, however, a thump coming from up the stairs that probably meant his parents (god, his _parents_ ) were engaging in bedroom activities. Matthew shared a look with his brother, something along the lines of _those goddamn Europeans,_ before grabbing their respective luggage and heading up the stairs. The second door on the left, across the hall from the room where the lewd sounds were coming from, was the guest bedroom. Matthew and Al always bunked with each other when it came to spending time at Arthur’s London flat, partially because there was only one guest bedroom and partially because they just liked bunking together. Alfred opened the bedroom door and landed on the full bed with a flop. A moan echoed across the hall; Matthew didn’t feel the slightest bit remorseful when he slammed the door to the guest bedroom shut. The Canadian let Kumajiro out of his cage before slipping off his shoes and glasses, stripping down to his boxers and crawling into bed. With a groan, Alfred followed suit.

“What time is it, anyways?” Al asked. He was spooning Matt now, face pressed between Matthew’s shoulder blades as he mumbled his question. His left hand was pressed flat against Matt’s stomach, rising and falling as his brother breathed.

“Almost four, I think.”

“Mm.”

“Get some sleep, Al.”

“Mm.”

“Who’re you?”

Matthew groaned, disrupting his comfortable position in order to pick Kuma up off of the floor to hold him to his stomach. “I’m Canada, get some sleep.”

With Kuma’s fluffy butt in his face, Matthew finally drifted off to sleep.

…

Alfred woke up to hair in his face and the smell of crêpes wafting up from kitchen. The hair, Alfred quickly found out, was Matthew’s, and the crêpes most likely were Francis’ doing. Good, he was starving.

He did his best to disentangle himself from his northern brother without waking him, retracting his arm that was still around Matthew’s middle and pressed a lazy kiss to Matthew’s forehead. Robotically, he retrieved his glasses from the bedside table and his phone from his pants from the night before. A message from Arthur was displayed on the home screen, reading _Put some bloody trousers on before you come down to breakfast._

He actually managed to find some sleep pants he’d packed, though he hadn’t really entertained the idea of wearing them. Nonetheless, he pulled them on, threw an old bathrobe he packed at the bottom of his suitcase on and headed down the hall and stairs. The smell of crêpes got stronger and so did Alfred’s hunger. Had he even eaten last night? Or did he only have crappy plane food? Bah, he couldn’t remember.

Gawain, haughty as ever, waited for him at the bottom of the steps and escorted him to breakfast. Immediately, Alfred could see why he had been told to clothe himself. And really, maybe he should’ve put a shirt on, or at least tied up his bathrobe. Mycroft Holmes, the lofty government official that was always sticking his already rather protruding nose into other people’s business, was sitting at the kitchen table with Arthur and two others. Arthur was sporting a rather impressive case of bedhead, dressed in a t-shirt that was probably Francis’ and a hideous pair of plaid pajama bottoms that really had seen better days. Francis looked as elegant as ever, housecoat over silk pajamas that probably had cost as much as a night at the Hilton. The Frenchman was busying himself, spreading crêpe batter and making coffee (actual good coffee, better than the instant stuff Arthur kept in his house for company), but no doubt listening into the conversation at hand.

The two others at the table, a short, blond man in an ugly sweater and a tall, lean, dark haired man that looked as posh as Mycroft, were in some involved discussion with Arthur. Not for much longer though, considering Arthur had looked up and seen Alfred in his unintentional half-nudity.

“Really?” was all Arthur said.

Alfred turned his nose up, “You didn’t specify.” Even so, he tied the belt around his waist before accepting breakfast from Francis, with a hug in between. “ _Bon matin_ , _chou_ ,” was said with a kiss to the cheek and a cup of coffee shoved into his hand.

“Morning.” Al said back, making his way behind Mycroft and Arthur to take a seat at the table. Arthur was at the ready with introductions, “Mycroft, I believe you’ve already met Alfred.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said with a sharp smile, “we’re acquainted.”

Alfred gave him little more than a nod and continued to eat his crêpes. Arthur continued.

“Sherlock, John, this is Alfred F. Jones,” there was a pause, “the United States of America. Alfred, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“I figured. It’s nice to meet you.” Alfred said. He shook John’s proffered hand. Sherlock did not offer his to shake. Instead, he offered, “Iraq or Afghanistan?”

Alfred grinned, “Both. Gulf Wars uno and dos.” Before he could explain, Arthur started talking. “We were talking about plans for the day,” Arthur said, “Sherlock would appreciate it if you follow Dr. Watson here back to the morgue and review the…victims.”  

“Damn,” Alfred said more to himself than the other occupants at the table, “I brought the wrong textbooks.” Arthur gave him a weird look, and Mycroft asked, “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Alfred said, waving his fork around and almost accidentally spearing Arthur in the process, “I brought some Harvard textbooks with me, thinking that maybe they could help, but I don’t really get y’all’s Parliament anyways. I mean, I get government concept just fine, but why the _wigs_ _in court_ , man? Like, what’s up with them? See, this is why no one in my country takes you seriously.”

“Getting a bit off topic, Alfred,” Arthur ground out through gritted teeth. Though the other parties at the table seemed a little wary of the half-murderous look that was gracing Arthur’s face, Alfred didn’t do anything but shrug and stuff his mouth full of more food. This, this was practically a slap on the wrist.

“Anyways,” Mycroft said, after Arthur had finished up his glaring, “I’ve received several calls from a few American officials, as well as a few Canadians, and they wish to send over their own people for this job; the next immediate item on our to-do list is to not have them do such a thing. I was hoping your lot would be able to work out a deal.”

Alfred watched the doctor and the detective watch in awe for the former and bemusement for the latter as the three nations in the room, including himself, straighten up, like they had just been called to attention. Arthur was still all bushy eyebrows, but he was straight shoulders now as well, and eyes as sharp as a lion’s; Alfred got his face out of his plate, a crease between his eyebrows forming as he lost himself to thought, and Francis suddenly appeared from his out of the way place by the window. Arthur and Francis exchanged looks, before Francis said, “I don’t believe Arthur and I have heard anything of the sort.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Alfred interrupted, sounding exasperated (because ugh, parents), “you two were too busy screwing each other senseless when Matt and I walked in last night—”

“I _told_ you they had sex, John.” Arthur’s cheeks reddened at Sherlock’s statement. (Francis only adopted a smirk because he was French and people knowing of his sexual prowess was nothing short of ordinary.)

“—to do much talking, and lemme tell you, nothing much is changed since World War Two.”

“If we could return back to the topic of politics, Mr. Jones.”

“What, Myc? Oh, sorry. Yeah, so anyways, my boss is trying to get someone over here, but maybe I can interfere. He’s a cool dude, but I don’t always get a say in what he does, ‘cause that’s just how the government is run. At the very least they’re gonna send over Helen, my awesome secretary, but that’s mostly since she counts as an FBI agent. She won’t do anything you don’t want her to, though. And for the Canadians? Well, it’s hard to say because they’re a little more lax when it comes to Britain, so they might just pull someone stationed at the Canadian embassy over here and save some airfare. Hell, they might just back up the United States government, we’re so tied together. Hopefully, Matt and I can stop them from sending anyone so meddlesome that it’ll really affect this private investigation.”

Mycroft seemed pleased by this news, which was a weight off of Alfred’s shoulders, “And I can believe this is all for the best; too many governing powers will only create a bigger mess, and of course, more risk.”

“What’ll create more risk?”

“Matt!” Alfred exclaimed, “What’re you doing up?”

…

John immediately saw the relation between America, and this man who John was going to assume was his brother, Canada. They were both blond and relatively fair, though this man was lighter in skin color and his hair was a bit longer. He was dressed in clothes that looked too big for him: an overlarge t-shirt with some ironed on design of an American city (tourist crap, Sherlock would call it) and track suit bottoms that hung like they were a size too big. At his feet was…was that a polar bear?

“Who’re you?” The polar bear asked, one furry paw clutching to the fabric of his owner’s sweats.

Evidently a talking polar bear. Brilliant.

“Kuma,” The blond man hissed at the creature, “Be polite.” The bear ignored him, instead choosing to waddle over to Francis and demand to be fed. Francis chuckled and went to the pantry to pull out what John figured was a tin of sardines.

“Sorry about that,” the blond man said, sheepish. Sherlock, unfortunately, had other concerns, “Where did you get a bear that could talk, and where can I find myself one?”

“Sherlock,” John said, getting to Sherlock before Mycroft could get a chance to, “ _Not now_.”

A sigh, “Very well, John.” Gaze settling back on the new comer, Sherlock said, “You’re Canada then, the Great White North.”

“Eh? I am, yeah. Matthew Williams, at your service.” He came over and shook John’s hand, and John was a bit surprised when even Sherlock offered a hand to the Canadian to shake. Mycroft, however, seemed entirely bored by everything, including the talking polar bear which John thought would ruffle even someone like Mycroft Holmes. Especially someone like Mycroft Holmes.

“Matthew, poppet, come sit down and have some breakfast, we’ve got a lot to do today.” Arthur said, and yes, now that John saw him with what were in a sense his children, he could see what Sherlock meant by “father like tendencies.” Matthew did as he was told and sandwiched himself between Arthur and Alfred. Francis dropped a plate in front of him, “ _Bon matin_ , Matthieu.”

“Ah, _bonjour, Papa. As-tu bien dormi?”_ Matthew answered back. Even though John knew only as much as _hello, good-bye_ and _thank you_ in French, considering the look on Matthew’s face and the slight reddening of Francis’, he figured out generally what was being said. Arthur looked positively red and Alfred snorted into his coffee as he went to take a sip.

Francis scrambled to find words, “ _Oui, merci, chér._ ”

While Francis was trying, and failing, to explain himself to his son in French, Alfred was losing it in his seat, laughing over his crêpes. “Matt, Jesus, I fucking love you, sometimes, man. Fucking Canadian passive aggression. I’m-I’m gonna cry, Jesus.”

“Language, Alfred F. Jones!” Arthur interjected.

“ _Je peux expliquer, Matthieu!”_

_“Papa—”_

“Who’re you?”

“For fuck’s sake, bear, I’m _America_.”

“ _Alfred!_ ”

Sherlock slammed his hands flat on the table, taking even Mycroft aback, “If we’re all quite done here? There is a case to solve that won’t be over tea and breakfast. I should like to get a move on, and none of you can go out in your dressing gowns. Unfortunately.”

The anthropomorphic personifications were stunned into silence, and John wasn’t even the least bit surprised when it was Alfred that spoke up first, “Well, I call showering first.” He picked up his empty plate and placed it in the sink, “Somebody needs to text me the address of the place we’re supposed to end up,” he called over his shoulder as he headed towards the stairs.

“You all go ahead,” Arthur said, “we’ll be an hour and then we’ll meet you there.”

The countries filed out, Francis finally leaving when all the dishes were in the sink to be dealt with later. It left John, Sherlock and Mycroft all sitting awkwardly around the table in the kitchen, at a loss of what to do. Or not, since Sherlock had that look on his face.

“I suppose this is where we part ways, John, Mycroft.” He went to stand, “And brother, do make sure Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Williams know where they’ll be meeting me.” And with that, he left, the front door slamming shut moments after.

John was left at the table with Mycroft Holmes.

“Countries,” Mycroft sighed through his nose, “I forgot how absolutely _tedious_ they could be.”

John had nothing to add, and had an idea that if he did add to the conversation, he would only be belittled.

“Who’re you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes: 
> 
> Gawain was one of Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table (British Lit, obviously)
> 
> Assuming that Mycroft is the British government, I’m sure he would’ve already met Matthew and Alfred. 
> 
> Although Francis has no shame, I don’t think he likes sharing it with his “petit chou”, Matthieu. And Matthew is putting up with none of your shit, France. 
> 
> Helen, the secretary of Al’s, is just some OC. More with her later. And yes, the Canandian and American governments are really that closely tied together. NAFTA (North American Federal Trade Agreement) is the trade agreement the US, Canada and Mexico that binds us all together.
> 
> Also, I think the boys (Al and Matt) are just so completely fed up with Europe because they keep getting dragged into European problems that they have absolutely nothing to do with (I give you the world wars)
> 
> That leads us to the [Persian] Gulf Wars, of which there were two. The one you’re probably most familiar with is the one (the second one) our Dr. Watson fought in, and the one the US, Britain and Canada were most recently engaged in. The one before it was the last big “hurrah” the US had in the Middle East. If you’re interested in more information, Google is your best friend.
> 
> Translations are from French:  
> Bon matin – Good morning  
> Chou, chér – French endearments  
> As-tu bien dormi – Did you sleep well? *wink, wink*  
> I’m not translating oui and merci; you should know those.  
> Je peux expliquer – I can explain!


End file.
